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The Land of Footprints-Part34_Stewart Edward White(1873-1946)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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hands, and considering it with wrinkled brow. If you offered

anything to Funny Face, no matter what, he dashed up, seized it



on the fly, departed at speed uttering grateful low chatterings;

probably dropped and forgot it in the excitement of something new



before he had even looked to see what it was.

"These people," said Darwin to himself, "on the whole, and as an



average, seem to give me appropriate and pleasing gifts. To be

sure, it is always well to see that they don't try to bunco me



with olive stones or such worthless trash, but still I believe

they are worth cultivating and standing in with."



""It strikes me," observed Funny Face to himself, "that my

adorable Memsahib and my beloved bwana have been very kind to me



to-day, though I don't remember precisely how. But I certainly do

love them!"



We cut good sized holes on each of the four sides of their chop

box to afford them ventilation on the march. The box was always



carried on one of the safari boy's heads: and Funny Face and

Darwin gazed forth with great interest. It was very amusing to



see the big negro striding jauntily along under his light burden;

the large brown winking eyes glued to two of the apertures. When



we arrived in camp and threw the box cover open, they hopped

forth, shook themselves, examined their immediate surroundings



and proceeded to take a little exercise. When anything alarmed

them, such as the shadow of a passing hawk, they skittered madly



up the nearest thing in sight-tent pole, tree, or human form-

and scolded indignantly or chittered in a low tone according to



the degree of their terror. When Funny Face was very young,

indeed, the grass near camp caught fire. After the excitement was



over we found him completely buried in the straw of his box,

crouched, and whimpering like a child. As he could hardly, at his



tender age, have had any previous experience with fire, this

instinctive fear was to me very interesting.



The monkeys had only one genuine enemy. That was an innocent

plush lion named Little Simba. It had been given us in joke



before we left California, we had tucked it into an odd corner of

our trunk, had discovered it there, carried it on safari out of



sheer idleness, and lo! it had become an important member of the

expedition. Every morning Mahomet or Yusuf packed it-or rather



him-carefully away in the tin box. Promptly at the end of the

day's march Little Simba was haled forth and set in a place of



honour in the centre of the table, and reigned there-or

sometimes in a little grass jungle constructed by his faithful



servitors-until the march was again resumed. His job in life was

to look after our hunting luck. When he failed to get us what we



wanted, he was punished; when he procured us what we desired he

was rewarded by having his tail sewed on afresh, or by being



presented with new black thread whiskers, or even a tiny blanket

of Mericani against the cold. This last was an especial favour



for finally getting us the greater kudu. Naturally as we did all

this in the spirit of an idle joke our rewards and punishments



were rather desultory. To our surprise, however, we soon found

that our boys took Little Simba quite seriously. He was a fetish,



a little god, a power of good or bad luck. We did not appreciate

this point until one evening, after a rather disappointing day,



Mahomet came to us bearing Little Simba in his hand.

"Bwana," said he respectfully, "is it enough that I shut Simba in



the tin box, or do you wish to flog him?"

On one very disgraceful" target="_blank" title="a.可耻的；不光彩的">disgraceful occasion, when everything went wrong, we



plucked Little Simba from his high throne and with him made a

beautiful drop-kick out into the tall grass. There, in a loud



tone of voice, we sternly bade him lie until the morrow. The camp

was bung-eyed. It is not given to every people to treat its gods



in such fashion: indeed, in very deed, great is the white man! To

be fair, having published Little Simba's disgrace, we should



publish also Little Simba's triumph: to tell how, at the end of a

certain very lucky three months' safari he was perched atop a



pole and carried into town triumphantly at the head of a howling,

singing procession of a hundred men. He returned to America, and



now, having retired from active professional life, is leading an




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